Millions of cars passing by, and the people inside peer out at you. That moment right there is all they'll ever know you for. You could be the frowning mess crying on the curb, or the silly girl with a quirky smile. It's that moment, you know. Speeding down the road, and they look out for a brief /moment/. And there you are.
Just there.
They see you, but only for a second. And then they're gone, and that's all there is to the story.

Writers

Monday, January 17, 2011

The moon, the stars.

It's simple. Our parents yell, anger and pacing, because they're confined angression. Our friends shout because they're not prone to caring. With jokes and games, I could tell them they look fat today, and they'd just smile. "It's a joke," they'd tell themselves in their head. But not about my fat comment. About life. About the worrying and giving a fuck, because they don't. We don't care. We're raised to take in information and let it fizzle out.
We're raised to take the blame and figure out the issue ourselves, even when it wasn't our fault at all.
No, it's still simple though.
The men in their business suits walking down the streets: they have their block-thoughts, concrete-building-thoughts. They have their salary and kids and wife, or husband and kid, or dog, or cat. They have what they go home to at night, and then the morning hour before they leave for work. They have a shower, maybe their morning coffee at three in the morning. They're prone to sleeping problems, because there's something bothering them. Something missing.
Okay, so they're incomplete.
From the ripped jeans and sideways hats, you have your views of importance. Of what matters is status, what matters is who you are friends with, what you do, what you say. It doesn't seem to matter who you are, though. Just everyone else. Everyone else matters but no you, because you are too outwardly focused. Too broad and pathetically captivated in such a small world. But, for them, what's missing?
The content of their character. The thoughts that bring revolutions. They won't be scientists or writers, or actors or anything, because they are small people.
But nevermind them.
Who you need to focus on is the dropouts. The had-a-cause-but-lost-it. I'm sorry, but they're not disappointments. At least they had a why for a while. At least they had a drive behind them, even if they sprinted too soon and it fizzled out.
They still cared.
The people who you need to watch out for is everyone. The next five people you see on the streets all the way to to the last person you meet eyes with before you die. From A to Z and back again. They all matter. They're all people. Even you.
Even me.

The problem doesn't exist. There is no, "None of us truly care about one another." There isn't any of that, because we're all people and we can all care and if you stopped analysing everything and putting labels on it, you'd have an easier time of actually feeling alive.
It's like my bedroom. It's messy, okay? But I never have the time to clean it, and I don't really think I should. I know where everything is when I really need it, and that works for me. Disregard everything and start out fresh or do whatever.

As long as there's something in there, deep in your heart, you're fine.

You know what makes me sleep a little better? At night, when my parents are yelling at each other, the moon shines through my window and onto my walls. It isn't much, but what more do you need than a dream?
My friends and I are okay, because: